


Tous Les Chats Sont Gris Dans Le Noir

by letmetellyouaboutmyfeels



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Thieves, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Art Thief!Flynn, F/M, Jewel Thief!Lucy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:53:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23088862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letmetellyouaboutmyfeels/pseuds/letmetellyouaboutmyfeels
Summary: They say thieves are without honor. They never said anything about love.
Relationships: Garcia Flynn/Lucy Preston
Comments: 2
Kudos: 50





	Tous Les Chats Sont Gris Dans Le Noir

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted here: https://letmetellyouaboutmyfeels.tumblr.com/post/190591026018/ahem-im-just-saying-that-since-someone-who-is

It was bound to happen at some point.

They’ve disliked each other from the first moment they clapped eyes on each other. All right, so maybe… dislike is too strong of a word. Or not strong enough. Lucy certainly felt something when she took in the height, the hair, the eyes, the… everything that is Garcia Flynn.

And then he opened his mouth and oh, yes, she’ll claim it was dislike until the end of her days.

That mouth is being used for much better things right now than making smart remarks. It’s devouring hers, hungry, and then moving down, latching onto her neck, teeth scraping along her pulse point. The heist went sideways and they managed to pull it off by the skin of their teeth (Mason is going to yell at them plenty for it tomorrow) and they’re both riding the adrenaline as Flynn gets his hands up underneath her thighs and lifts her up against the wall, his hips immediately thrusting forward to pin her into place.

Those hands, his arms (oh God, his arms, she can’t even fit her hand around them as she digs her nails in) have been lifting paintings in gilt frames off walls for a decade, of course he can lift her easy as anything.

Her hands might not be strong, exactly, but her fingers are nimble, and she undoes his pants, shoves them down, rucks that black blasted turtleneck of his up to feel the solid planes of muscle in his torso—and a few scars, too.

“Where’d you get these?” she asks, as he spreads her open, spears his fingers in, takes and takes. “Somebody have a good security system?”

“The only one of us foolish enough to get a guard to shoot at us is you, Miss Tiffany’s,” he shoots back.

He’s deflecting from answering the question, she’s gotten to know him well during this partnership, even if said partnership was because their backs were against the wall and it was against their will—but before she can draw attention to it, Flynn is surprising her by dropping to his knees.

He’s still keeping her pressed up against the wall, what the _fuck_ , does the man lift bags of cement in his spare time?

Then he licks into her and all thoughts fly out the window.

Lucy’s hands twist in his hair, the hair that sometimes flops into his eyes a little when he’s picking a lock (she’s better at it, jewelry tends to be kept in safes, he’s better with weight-based alarm systems since that’s what people use for their paintings). Flynn is enthusiastic, savage, unrelenting, just like in everything else, and she shivers and shakes and tries so very hard not to give him the satisfaction of hearing her scream but she whines desperately anyway as she comes with the flat of his tongue against her clit.

“I said,” she snaps, yanking him back up to her even as her knees shake, “ _fuck_ me. As in, with your _cock_.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, was that orgasm not to your liking?” Flynn started their acquaintance by insulting her mother, the jewel thief who taught Lucy everything she knows (or almost everything, it was Henry who taught her to care about others, to have morals, to use her skills to rip apart the exploiters with their pretty stones instead of just doing it for personal gain) and since then Flynn’s obviously decided that he doesn’t need a shovel, he’ll use a bulldozer to dig his own grave, thanks.

Lucy wraps her legs around him and yanks out his—very sizeable, very hot and thick in her hand—dick. Flynn makes a strangled noise that is extremely satisfying.

“This,” she promises him, rubbing her thumb over the head and loving how he jerks in response, “is to my liking.”

Flynn growls, and his hips snap into her all the way the moment she guides him inside of her.

The neighbors are probably wondering who’s dying next door as he fucks her hard, harder than any other lover, taking to heart her insistence that she’s not porcelain, she’s not fine china, she won’t break. She’s cursing and swearing up a storm, and it feels so fucking good and she _hates_ that it feels this good, hates that because now nobody else is going to quite measure up and it’s patently unfair that the one man who seems capable of fucking her into next week is also the surly, snarky, chaotic, anarchistic disaster who’s been a thorn in her side through five fucking heists and counting.

He even manages to generously hold out on coming until after she does. The asshole.

Between the banter and the high stakes it was bound to happen at some point, but oh God, does Lucy hate him.

* * *

The second time, it’s because the heist went flawlessly.

They stumble into the hotel room and Lucy yanks the necklace out of her bra, hoisting it into the air. “Did you see that!?” she cries, twirling it around her finger and smiling so hard it feels like she’s going to burst. “That’s how it’s done, that’s how it’s _done_.”

Flynn’s grinning at her, looking oddly proud, like he’s actually pleased with her, with how this went off, and they _did it_ , one more heist down, one less heist on Mason’s seemingly endless list, and Amy is going to love hearing this story (Rufus, less so, he says he wants to maintain some kind of plausible deniability, as if that’ll actually hold up in court at all), and her heart is pounding and this is why she does it—she does it for the good of others, of course, she does it to help people, to hock the jewelry and watch the rich bastards tear their hair out while she sends the proceeds to the very people trying to right their wrongs—but she also does it because it’s a thrill, because it’s addicting, because it’s _fun_ …

And then Flynn says, still smiling at her like that, “You were amazing, Lucy,” and she kisses him before she can think twice about it.

They stare at each other for a moment, and Lucy has no idea what Flynn’s thinking, but he looks rather like he’s been concussed.

Then they’re both diving into each other again simultaneously.

They manage to fuck on the bed this time, as she shoves him down onto his back and rides him, her hips rolling and meeting his harsh thrusts, and he’s so deep inside of her it feels like if she pressed the heel of her hand to her stomach, she’d feel him moving under her skin, and he grips her hips so hard his fingertips leave bruises, and she comes so violently the world goes white.

* * *

He knew, the second time—the second time they did it, as Lucy laughed and twirled that necklace, he knew—he was in trouble.

Of course, he’d been in trouble from the moment he first laid eyes on her and blurted out, “ _That’s_ the Cat?” because he hadn’t been aware that Carol Preston had retired and her gorgeous, brilliant, infinitely better daughter had taken over the family business. Maybe he’d even been in trouble before that, when Rufus had told him to get his ass out of whatever Brazilian bar he was moping in and come meet this thief he should work with, _would_ work with if he knew what was good for him, sending him Lucy’s goddamn picture and info (sans, y’know, the whole _oh by the way she’s the best jewelry thief in the business_ information that would’ve been useful to have) like it was a dating profile and it had fucking worked.

But he’s definitely in trouble now, walking into their hotel room and finding Lucy standing in front of the full-length mirror wearing the necklace they stole. Oh, and the bracelets from that other job. And the earrings she lifted just “because I wanted to” on their first heist, the ones that led to a massive argument (one of many).

It should be noted that she’s wearing that, and nothing else.

Flynn is fairly certain he now knows what a stroke feels like. The necklace they actually needed to use again to get into this other job they’re now working—Lucy wore it to the party their mark was hosting, assuring Flynn that with a statement piece like that, she’d both blend in and get the mark’s attention. She was right, which was why Flynn had been using the lobby payphone (less easy to track them, in case Rittenhouse is onto them) to call Rufus and ask for the blueprints they need.

Clearly, Lucy thought that call would take longer.

The necklace was bad enough in that burgundy dress she was wearing earlier, the one with the plunging neckline. The necklace wraps around her throat, and clasps tight like a choker—but then the one part of it trails down, down, rubies and black pearls sliding down in a sinuous line like a serpent, right between her breasts and into the fabric of the dress.

When she was wearing a dress.

Which she currently is not.

This is definitely a stroke.

Lucy looks up, her eyes meeting his in the mirror.

“What,” Flynn manages to croak, “are you doing?”

Lucy, to her credit, doesn’t look the least bit embarrassed. They have fucked twice now, and the second time they actually managed to get naked, so he figures it’s reasonable. Except he’s caught _feelings_ for her and she’s standing there like a queen, like some kind of painting, her skin soft and shining and her dark hair cascading down her bare back and the necklace resting right between her breasts and the bracelets circling her wrists and she looks—she looks like a princess, a _queen_ , and he—

“Having fun,” Lucy replies. She turns away from the mirror, her fingertips trailing along the curve of the necklace where it sits against the hollow of her throat. “I like to… admire them, before I give them to Amy and she rips them apart and sells the pieces.” Lucy pauses, and Flynn sees a rare hint of vulnerability in her gaze. “I won’t always look like this. I’m okay with it, but I just… sometimes I want to look, and take a picture in my mind. So that when I’m older I can remember—I once looked like this, I was once beautiful, and I wore jewelry made for royalty. I had rubies around my throat.”

 _You’ll always be beautiful_ , Flynn thinks, and oh, he can’t say that out loud or he’ll really ruin everything, so he crosses the room instead and falls to his knees and kisses her right where the necklace ends, right in between the underside of her breasts.

Lucy’s breath hitches, and her hand slides into his hair. It’s the only _go on_ that he’s going to get and, well, he might be a thief with honor, but he’s still a thief.

He knows how to take.

He kisses her, he kisses the cool stones against her skin until they become warm, he creates his own necklace around her throat, one with his lips, one that can’t be taken off so easily and will need time to fade. He tugs on the earrings, makes her shudder, tightens the clasp of the necklace once, twice, three more links until Lucy’s gasping for breath and whispering _yes, like that_ as she arches into him.

It’s only their third time but he’s quickly figured out that they always, in the end, do what Lucy wants, and what Lucy wants is for them to be kneeling on the bed, for him to take her from behind, for her to get to watch them in the mirror. He can’t look at himself—literally or figuratively—so he looks at her, looks at his hand around her throat, at her breast, at the curve of her body, looks at the red, red stones against her flushing skin, at the fierce, hungry shine in her eyes that matches the sparkle of the gems, and he thinks (knows) she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

* * *

She blames the gloves entirely for the fourth time.

Flynn wears these gloves, right? Italian leather, he got them in Florence (the bastard), they help him avoid leaving fingerprints but don’t impede his movement or dexterity. He wears them to lift paintings and she can see his arms flexing underneath the black fabric and he’s utterly silent as he does it, he never makes a sound, the Shadow was well named—and there is nobody home in this mansion, anyway.

So they fuck on the marble floor in the gallery.

Well, technically, she waits until Flynn sets down the painting and then she gets on her knees and takes his cock out and puts her mouth on it, and Flynn, ever the professional, is utterly silent while she does it (the hilariously pained face he makes when he comes, straining from trying not to make a noise, makes her wish she had a camera). Then she guides his hand between her legs and bites down on the leather of his other hand, _tastes_ it on her tongue, and he fucks her and fucks her with it until she can _hear_ how utterly soaked his glove is, absolutely filthy noises of her own depravity the only thing she can hear in the room, and when Flynn whispers, half dirty and half awed, “it’s like you want to take my entire goddamn hand,” she comes and bites down so hard on his glove he complains for three days about the teeth marks she left.

* * *

The fifth time, Flynn almost dies.

When Mason told them they had a common enemy in Rittenhouse, and told them that, as a billionaire, he knew where all the ill-gotten art was held, all the fancy houses and safes it was hidden inside, Lucy had known there was a catch. Flynn had too. They’d walked into this with their eyes wide open: go up against Rittenhouse and Rittenhouse would come for them.

But they’d been doing so well, they’d been so careful, and she’d started to think that maybe they could beat it. She didn’t see it coming, she didn’t see the _trap_ coming, and then Flynn was bleeding and they had to run, run, run, not stopping until they got to their hotel room.

“Did you get it?” Flynn asks, or rasps rather. His voice sounds like he smoked a pack of cigarettes and then gargled rocks. “Did you grab…”

He slumps down onto the floor, back against the wall, and Lucy tries not to let her hands shake as she brings over the first aid kit. It’s just a scratch, she can see that, it’s only bleeding because it’s one of those annoying shallow cuts that bleeds like a motherfucker, but it’s so _much_ blood and if Flynn hadn’t dodged quite fast enough, if he’d twisted the wrong way out of instinct—

“You’re bleeding and you’re worried about a painting,” she hisses, yanking his shirt off.

“It’s a Degas,” Flynn retorts.

To be precise, it’s one of the Degas works stolen from the Isabella Steward Gardner Museum in the ‘90s. Not that Lucy really gives a flying rat’s ass at the moment.

“And that means it’s worth your life?” she snaps, more heat in it than she’d intended, applying the antiseptic and all the rest.

Flynn, to his credit, doesn’t even hiss when she gets to work on the _knife wound_ on his _stomach_. “I’ve had worse, for less.”

Lucy’s thumb traces the scar that bisects his torso, the long, scary one she asked about their first time, and tells herself she’s just bracing her hand to keep him still while she works. “Well, you’re not getting worse, not while you’re my partner. The work isn’t worth your life.”

Flynn watches her in silence for a long moment. “I’m not your mother.”

Carol Preston was devoted to her job. Too devoted.

“I know that. I don’t fuck my mother, for starters.”

Flynn snorts in a way that manages to convey _you are the most impossible woman I have ever met_ through a single sound.

Her hands are starting to shake again, so she quickly grabs the gauze and starts bandaging him. Flynn is watching her, and she hates how he can look at her and see so much, see right through her, she hates how he’s so soft with her and yet never yields, never gives quarter, takes all she flings at him and dishes it right back out, challenges her, she hates him, she _hates_ him—

She ties off the gauze. “There.” Her throat is thick. She clears it. “That should do it.”

Flynn is still watching her.

“Lucy,” he says, and that’s it, that’s all, but somehow it makes a terrible sound (it’s not a sob, it’s too deep for that, she won’t call it that) well up in her throat and she kisses him before she can say something horribly damning like _you steal art from Nazis and give it back to Jewish families_ or _you called me a genius_ or _you think art should be shared and seen by everyone and not hiding in a vault_ or, or, worst of all, _don’t leave me_.

She winds up in his lap, and she stays there, kissing him, and it’s all of the heat but none of the ferocity from the first time, and her lips linger against his, and she tells herself that she moves slowly because he’s injured, not because she wants to savor him.

Flynn holds her face in his hands, and if he tastes salt, he’s got just enough tact not to mention it.

* * *

He loses track of the times, but one time, one time it’s in a house by the ocean, as the sun is rising, because Lucy woke him up by crawling on top of him and nibbling _good morning_ against his jaw, and he can never say no to her.

Early morning light, golden and clear, spills over them as they move together, her body spread out underneath him, and he’s always been an appreciator of art, a lover of it, never wanted to create it, but he wishes that someone would paint this moment—Lucy glowing golden in the Mediterranean sun, her eyes glittering like opals.

They lie sprawled out afterwards, his head resting on her breast, his arm thrown across her stomach, her fingers idly trailing through his hair. Her nails (claws, cat’s claws, thief’s claws) scrape lightly against his scalp. Her thumb traces the curve of his ear. _The Sated Lovers_ , he thinks. _Oil on canvas. 2017. Artist unknown._

“I’m surprised Mason hasn’t called,” Lucy observes after some time listening to the waves crashing on the shore below them.

“He probably has.” Flynn nuzzles her warm skin, tightens his arm around her slightly. “I just turned off our phones. And disconnected the landline.”

He’s jostled as Lucy shakes with laughter. “He’s going to kill us.”

“Let him.” Flynn tilts his head so that his chin is resting on her chest and he can look into her eyes. “It’s our honeymoon, after all.”

Lucy pulls him up and kisses him, and he kisses her back—the best damn thing he ever stole.

(Although, to be fair, it was probably more like she stole him.)


End file.
